***
At eight o’clock that evening, he was feeling unusually tired. He had spent the last few hours brooding over his article and was finally done, now able to recline into his luxurious green leather sofa and repose himself. The glorious view of London’s skyline, a thousand lights in a thousand offices dazzling like myriad stars, greeted him through the expansive window on the side of his apartment. He allowed himself to sink into the comfortable fabric and luxuriate in its softness.
His only friend for the night was a mug of hot chocolate residing on the table beside him. He sipped it gratefully, reveling in the smooth, warm texture as it oozed down his oesophagus. The sensation induced in him a heavenly state of tranquility.
Slumber must have taken him, for he awoke with a start to find the vessel smashed on the floor and its contents spilled over his chest. He cursed in pain and sprinted for the bathroom to wash himself down.
Yet when he reached the mirror, he stopped, for there was something wrong with his reflection. It mesmerised him so much that he forgot his burnt chest. Had he always been this size? Had his hair always been so unkempt? He checked his memory, and everything was where it should be: the nose was the right shape, the lips in the right position. Nonetheless an inexpicable sense of withdrawal overcame him as if his mind did not belong in this body. It was an unnerving sensation indeed to feel distant from his own body, like it was borrowed and transient.
His thoughts were interrupted when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hello Tommy dear!”
Thomas winced. It was his mum. As much as he loved her, he hated it when she called him that.
“I saw you in the paper again today. Page twelve, bottom corner, story about that campaign group in Essex.”
Ah! So they’d finally published that. He had written in weeks ago but the editor, Sarah Harcroft, had never got round to putting it into the paper. Well, apparently she finally had. Thomas had been sent to find a group in Essex complaining about a local animal testing lab where ferrets were injected with potentially deadly substances to discover their effects on mammals. He had spent the day with them observing their tactics and had concluded them to be a thoroughly unorganised and ineffective group who were, inadvertently, bolstering local support for the lab through their inept campaigning.
“Wonderful piece, dear. Best piece of writing you’ve done yet.”
Thomas smiled. She always said that, no matter how dire his work, but he still appreciated the compliment.
“I’ve got some bad news.”
She paused, breathing heavily.
Thomas had a presentiment about what the news could be. His father, her husband, had been in hospital for some time now with cancer. He had seemed to be recovering, but his stomach lurched at what he knew- nay, what he feared- was to come.
“It’s your father.”
She could barely bring herself to say it, but Thomas could finish the sentence.
“He’s dead, isn’t he mum?”
Her sobs answered in the affirmative.
The next day Thomas rushed home to see her. They hugged, they cried, they reminisced. They discussed funeral plans and funeral guests. They cooked together to ease the pain. She shouted angry words at God and at the deceased, cursing him for leaving before breaking down once more.
Thomas had fond memories of his father. He sat in the front room of his mother’s house recounting them. They had both shared a love of wrestling and had both been keen amateurs. His father, in fact, had been a pro wrestler called El Merto, whose characteristic move was to sit on his opponents’ faces until they gave in. He had met Thomas’ mother after a wrestling match in the seventies and they had been inseparable ever since.
His father had taken him to see many a wrestling match with local legends competing. Thomas had wanted to become a pro wrestler just like his dad, but his father had discouraged it, urging him to get a proper job and a proper career that could pay the bills and make him somebody.
He remembered one day a fierce argument had erupted between himself and his dad about that very subject. His dad had accused him of being too idealistic, just as he had been in his youth. He had urged him not to make his mistakes. The sad fact was that, although his father had been professional at one point and had the potential for a glittering career, a serious leg injury had put an end to that and, because he had never studied in school, he had no prospects as anything other than a wrestler. El Merto had lasted only two years before being forced into retirement and into a job as a builder.
It was that which had eventually killed him. Working in buildings filled with asbestos was obviously bad for his health and so it was that, at the age of 67, Mister Francis Wilson fell victim to that most terrifying of illnesses: cancer.
Yes, Thomas had such memories of his father…
A knock came at the door. His mother was still crying so Thomas stood to answer it.
A serious looking man stood on the other side of the threshold. He wore a plain black suit and carried a briefcase. There was no badge or tie or card to give any indication of any kind of identity or organisation he may represent, yet he dressed as if he were important.
“Mister Wilson?” he inquired.
His mouth barely moved when he spoke. It was shaped like a permanent frown with thin lips that gave off a distinctly tired and melancholy impression. The yellow teeth betrayed a lifetime of smoking and drinking coffee, presumably while travelling.
“Yes?” replied Thomas.
“Mister Thomas Wilson?” asked the man again.
“Yes, that’s me,” replied Thomas. This unnerved him slightly- he had not told anyone he was coming home and he did not recognise the stranger at the door.
“Mister Wilson, my name is Albert Pieterson. I am from an organisation known simply as TGN. Have you heard of us?”
“No. I’m sorry, are you here to sell something?” asked Thomas irritably. “If you are, I’m not interested. My father has just died.”
“I am well aware of your father’s death. I am sorry for your loss.”
An awkward silence ensued. Thomas eyed Mr. Pieterson up suspiciously. It was most disturbing that someone should know where he was, and the man’s eyes betrayed a cold lack of emotion so that his show of sympathy was nothing more than a formality. Nothing about this man was clear and everything was, potentially, suspect and at the very least a little secretive.
“I’m sorry, who are you again?”
“My name is Albert Pieterson. I represent an organisation known as TGN.”
“Yes, I know that, but what is TGN?”
“Our exact operations must remain secretive for the sake of our clients,” explained Pieterson. “We specialise in intelligence and scientific research. We count among our clients governments, top businesses and wealthy individuals. Sometimes we simply act of our own accord. This case, your case, is one of those instances.”
Thomas drew a blank. “I’m sorry, what are you doing here?”
“I’m here about your father, Mister Wilson.”
Another pause. Pieterson had Thomas fixed in his stare. It wasn’t a cold or evil gaze, nor was it warm or welcoming: it was merely neutral, professional, and a little disconcerting. At any rate, it wasn’t what Thomas needed right at this moment.
“I’m sorry, what do you want? It’s a difficult time for me so I’d like to be left alone if you don’t mind,” Thomas told the stranger. The words came out of Thomas’ mouth like treacle: slow and thick with emotion.
Pieterson did not answer directly. Instead, he began an odd line of questioning: “I take it you and your father share many happy memories?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Mister Wilson, those memories are a lie.”
A lump rose to Thomas’ throat. On the one hand, it is the height of rudeness to deny a man the memories of his father on the day he discovers his death. But on the other hand the stranger’s words made an odd sense to him. As much as he wanted to be ou
traged by his words, the memory of what he had experienced in his bathroom and outside the tube station acted as an immoveable block on his mind. On both occasions he had felt a sense that his memories were fake somehow, of him not being quite himself. Yet this inner weakness merely led him to be even more outraged than otherwise, for his sense of self was close to injury and a beast is the most dangerous when wounded.
“What do you mean?” Thomas asked, anger building.
“Mister Wilson, this will be very difficult for you to accept, but none of those memories ever happened. Not for you, at least.”
“My father died yesterday,” said Thomas slowly, through gritted teeth. It was difficult to hold back the emotion: rage and grief mixed together into something that threatened to explode into this man’s face. “Now please explain yourself or leave before I make you.”
“Mister Wilson, Francis George Wilson was never your father.”
In the front room, Mrs. Wilson had stopped crying. Her tears had dried up and as much as her eyes longed for them to flow, they would not come. She merely sat there in grief stricken silence. She had, however, been distracted from her thoughts by the conversation between her son and a stranger at the door. She was sitting in the living room with the door slightly ajar and the sound of it was wafting through from the hallway. She could not hear most of what was being said save for some choice words like “TGN” and “Pieterson”, but she could make out that the tone was becoming heated.
Two years her late husband’s junior, she was 65 but already showing signs of aging. For this reason it took a lot of effort to extract herself from her chair. Her frail arms pushed and heaved against the chair which confined her, but every time she lifted herself up, her strength failed her and she was forced to sink back into her seat. Eventually, however, she was on her feet and hobbling through the door leading into the hallway. It had taken several minutes for her to hoist herself out of her seat and she had become increasingly desperate to do so, for the exchange in the hall was becoming ever more heated and her son’s voice was beginning to change. She was worried about him. By the time she entered the hallway, the conversation had descended into hushed whispers so soft that she struggled to make out what was being said.
“Tommy dear, who is that?” she asked.
The mutterings ended and the two men turned to look at her, and Mrs. Wilson looked back. She was not interested in the stranger, however; her gaze was drawn to her own son, Thomas, for he was looking at her oddly. It was almost as if he were not himself; as if another man was looking at her through her son’s facial features.
The silence was broken when the stranger suddenly said, “Mister Wilson, we must leave now.” His voice was authoritative and her son seemed to obey unthinkingly. He followed the stranger through the door towards a waiting black cab, climbed into it and drove away- without even saying goodbye.
Mrs. Wilson never forgot the look on her son’s face as he walked away that day. He stared back at the house constantly, never deviating his stare, never looking away from his mother’s eyes. Yet her son looked different then: his expression blank; his eyes unrecognising; his entire body language like that of another person.